


Having

by nightshiftblues



Series: Professional Life Ruiner Thomas Jefferson [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Angst, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Unrequited Love, a really generic one, cus that's just how i like him, thomas is a right dick in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 21:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11837589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightshiftblues/pseuds/nightshiftblues
Summary: The idea of having will be the end of Alexander. Burr had at some point, in one of his extremely rare bouts of sincerity, said that Hamilton is indiscriminate in his hunger, and it’s not like Alex can really argue with that one.In which Hamilton writes Jefferson a love letter and Jefferson milks it for what it's worth.





	Having

**Author's Note:**

> This thing is inspired by [Reciprocated](https://xxcentaurus-wd.tumblr.com/post/164161866238/reciprocated) by tumblr user xxcentaurus-w, I recommend checking it out since it’s good, it’s short (850 words), and it’ll give some background for what’s goin’ on here.  
> I was also inspired by that Rupi Kaur poem that goes like "you’d rather have the / darkest parts of him / than have nothing" but including it would have felt a bit too song ficcy so I left it out.

“Too bad you can’t veto my bill with clever rhetoric alone, Jefferson. My argument stands.”

“While I _cannot recall a time in which I’ve felt such blissful happiness_ as upon hearing you praise my intellect so, I must beg to differ my dear Alexander.”

Those dark eyes flash at Alexander maliciously from across the table and the retort that is already formulating on the tip of his tongue doesn’t fit into his mouth anymore, causing him to sputter.

_He always does this._

Whenever it starts to seem like Alexander is winning a verbal showdown the tall fucker takes those _words_ and throws them at him, short clippings candidly embedded into seemingly innocuous statements, masterfully disguised. To any other person listening it seems like Jefferson is being sarcastic (hardly unusual), a bit over the top with the flowery language perhaps - but Alexander of course recognizes the quotes, those words he spilled straight out of his heart a few agonizingly long months ago. This pseudo-affectionate lift always appears in Jefferson’s voice when he does it, and lurking somewhere under it – a hint of a threat? Or is that just Alexander’s own paranoia? Would his colleague (his rival) truly stoop as low as to expose his shame to everyone in the office, knowing that there is no way anyone would believe the damning letter to be forged, seeing that Alexander’s handwriting in all of its chaotic near-illegible glory could never be replicated?

Alexander doesn’t doubt even for a moment that his rival would be above it, and so, even now, he shuts his mouth. And he keeps it shut, even though Jefferson’s triumphant grin is burning into his consciousness from the periphery of his vision, even though he can feel Washington’s calculating gaze burning into the side of his skull with the same intensity, even though the work of art that is his financial model deserves to be stood up for, despite of its worthless, pathetic creator. There is an uneasy silence as the rest of the room realizes that Alexander is, due to some kind of a miracle, done talking and the board members that had most likely resigned to sitting in silence as Jefferson and Hamilton have at it for the rest of the meeting scramble to voice whatever it was that they had wanted to discuss to begin with. Some graph is discussed, handouts are passed around the table despite of the company’s everlasting quest to ‘go paperless’. Alexander tunes it all out and chooses to simmer in his self-loathing and hatred instead, nice and cozy, until the time ticks by and Washington dismisses his employees by pushing back his chair with an air of finality. Hamilton ducks out of the room before he gets called into the CEO’s office with that same air of finality.

Securely in his office, Alexander turns a fidget cube in his fingers tensely (it’s his fourth one this month, the other ones he has already broken or lost but that’s just a part of their function as an outlet, he reasons). He glares at the general direction of Jefferson’s office. There is no actual visual path between the offices, which is probably definitely an intentional move on Washington’s part. Alexander is grateful of this. Not that it stops his thoughts from reeling through the same paths as always but at least not having to see that relaxed posture, that mane of hair, that _face_ , helps him keep his temper in check.

That face. Alexander can still conjure up that look on Thomas’ face (he used to be Thomas back then, not Jefferson), in the beginning, lit up with a gentle smile as he tossed Alexander his scarf to borrow or pulled back a chair for him like a proper Southern gentleman. Those brown eyes, sparkling with amusement, but never in the malicious way that Alexander would later become more than accustomed to. Nevermind the raw intelligence lurking behind those eyes, God, that had been the thing that had drawn Alexander in so helplessly, just the idea that someone could match him at his level, to keep up, without seeing Alexander’s whirlwind of a mind as a threat and wanting to shut him up (this delusion was perhaps the funniest of them all, considering). It still baffles Alexander how well this man played the part of someone Alex could so easily fall for. So well that Alexander had, in one of his bursts of impulsive courage, written that horrible, sappy letter and handed it over with no doubt on his mind that ‘Thomas’ was someone worthy of the vulnerability and innocence of the act. Someone who would appreciate it, even.

He had thought the worst case-scenario had been that his colleague would politely and apologetically explain that he could not reciprocate Alexander’s feelings, some awkwardness would have ensued, Alex would have had a Disney marathon with Peggy and cried into his Ben & Jerry’s for a bit, whatever. Rejection he could have dealt with – it’s not something Alexander gets a lot but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least know how to bounce back. No, the unimaginable worst case scenario that had unfolded instead-

Digging up the memory still feels like putting his mind-hand dangerously close to a burning hot stove. The dawning realization that the stiff line of Jefferson’s lips and shoulders was caused by barely held back laughter. The parody of affection on the other man’s face Alexander had never seen, or even imagined to fall on that kind face. The humiliation, the tears pricking dangerously at the corners of his eyes. _It’s sweet of you to write this for me darling._

And then this, his humiliation showed into his face at his weakest moments, over and over again, board meeting after board meeting. Jefferson played Alexander, took his feelings and _defeated_ him with them. And really, worst of all is that at the end of the day Alexander can only blame himself and his bouts of old fashioned sense of romance and his tendency to fall fast and hard and destructive like a comet. Or something. He’s not in a poetic mood; Jefferson took that aspect of his personality and ground it to the dust with the heel of his stupid expensive mink leather shoes.

A notification sound jerks Alexander out of his self-loathing momentarily. An email from Washington; some documents to look over and tacked after them, like an afterthought, a request to drop by at his office ASAP. Alexander knows better than to regard it as an afterthought. Washington has, as always, seen through him, doesn’t know the full context surely, will look at Alexander with those calculating eyes and say _‘son’_ -

Alexander needs to buy time. He will.

As a thrifty millennial he knows better than to have read receipts on so Washington won’t know that it’s a lie when Alexander pretends he only gets the email when he’s already home, can’t be helped. There is a very small chance of being spotted while slipping from his office to the elevators since the CEO’s office is on the floor above and Washington is most likely in there (expecting Alexander). He spares a fleeting thought of guilt about keeping his boss and mentor waiting, and leaving work early in general. Sure, he has worked enough overtime to warrant a year-long holiday, probably, but still. He doesn’t _do_ that. Except now he does, thanks to Jefferson. _You win_ , Alex mentally spits towards the general direction of the demon’s office as the elevator doors finally slide open with a ding.

Alexander is too busy calculating the safest and quickest route from the lobby to his bike to fully register the fingers wrapping over the edge of one of the elevator doors right before they slide shut. It’s the smell of expensive cologne with a subtle undertone of coconut oil that alerts him to the presence towering over him and then it’s too late and the elevator doors slide shut again.

“Alexander,” the smirk is somehow audible in the voice uncomfortably close to his ear; Alex can envision it perfectly even as he stubbornly fixes his eyes on the buttons to his right. 24 floors to go. _Fuck._

“Jefferson,” he manages.

“Leaving so early? Why, if this isn’t an unprecedented event in history, and the second one today no less,” he basically purrs with that insufferable Southern dialect. “The first one being you finally shutting your mouth and letting grownups talk of course.”

“I’m pretty sure the first one was actually how far up your own ass you’ve managed to fit your head despite of being the least flexible person on the planet,” Alexander snaps. 20 floors left. Why is the elevator so slow? Why is it so cramped? If you count the interns there are 67 personnel working for the company in this branch which isn’t even the only one in the towering building, shouldn’t they have more spacious elevators? Why is Jefferson standing so close Alex can swear he feels the air current tickling the top of his cheek as Jefferson lets out a little huff of amusement?

“So that’s what you think about at night? How ‘flexible’ I might be?” There it is, the cruelty just so breaking through the pretense of fondness. The tendency to blush that Alex has cursed himself for so many times before is surely exposing the way the tall man next to him is, as always, creeping right under his skin. Maybe twenty seconds in and he has already grown aggravated with the not-so-subtle subtext of the conversation.

“Oh get your mind out of the gutter. And believe me when I say that whatever I thought I saw in you clearly wasn’t there, you’ve seen very effectively to my disillusionment,” he spits. “And while we’re here, using my lapse of judgement against me at work is extremely unprofessional even from you.”

A fingertip is tracing Alexander’s jawline and the shock jolts him out of his stiff, stubborn posture, almost jolts him out of his damn skin. Without thinking he turns to finally face Jefferson, presses his back flush against the wall of the elevator, the space between them still uncomfortably narrow. Jefferson’s wolfish grin greets Alexander in all its glory and the previously light touch turns into a solid grip on his chin.

“Say, Alexander, does your heart still ‘pound fervently merely upon seeing me’?”

Even without the relentless grip on his chin Alexander would be forced to tilt his head back in order to meet the eyes of this infuriatingly, unfairly tall man, especially standing so close. That musky cologne is causing his head to swim and Alexander’s nerve ends are all on fire, and then there’s that stirring, that sickening fluttering in his chest, a sorry relic of the time he was still under Jefferson’s spell. What Alexander would have given, before the shitshow that was his confession, to be looked at by Thomas motherfucking Jefferson like this, to have his thumb tracing the outline of his lower lip the way it is now.

Another delighted chuckle.

“I guess silence does speak louder than words.”

Alexander should tell him to back off. That he will team up with the HR department and nail his ass to the wall for breaking company sexual harassment policy, hell, perhaps he will skip the middle man and reign justice himself by kneeing the arrogant fucker in the groin right then and there, that’ll teach him to-

The elevator dings, the doors start to slide open and Alexander has squeezed himself out in a way that is a feat even with his slightly malnourished frame. The sound of Jefferson’s laughter nips at his heels but he outruns it.

 

++++

 

It started with imagining things last time around, too.

Last time it was sickeningly corny and innocent, but ultimately harmless (or so he’d thought) daydreams. Dates at the park. Napping together (Thomas’ long limbs lazily wrapped around Alexander’s frame, long smooth fingers petting his hair). Bickering playfully over what takeout to get. Holding hands in art galleries and aquariums. He had wrapped himself into those stupid imaginary scenarios until he was convinced he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t at least give them a chance to become reality and – well. That one panned out just great.

So when Alexander finds himself picturing more of those stolen moments of intimacy as the one in the elevator (pressing against each other as if by coincidence when reaching for a coffee mug in the break room, quick and dirty kisses in the supply closet, playing footsie under the board meeting room table), he wants to slap himself. And he does, once or twice.

Thomas- Jefferson doesn’t want him. Alexander is not his type. That he made crystal clear on that horrendous day; Alexander, to Jefferson, is like a first grader coming up to a teacher with a drawing of them holding hands. Jefferson is doing this, keeps throwing him knowing smiles and winks and passing through narrow doorways at the same time with that gross expensive cologne invading his nostrils just to throw him off his game, because Jefferson is an evil, sadistic motherfucker who doesn’t have what it takes to beat Hamilton fair and square. So there is no reason whatsoever to get so worked up around the taller man, seeing that the person Alexander fell for does not exist. Eventually his body will catch up with his mind and his heart will stop trying to evacuate through his mouth every time Jefferson throws a scrap of jeering attention his way.

He tears his eyes away from the millionth draft of his final pitch for his financial model and rubs at the bridge of his nose, trying to get at the headache threatening to surface right behind it. He has been through this thought pattern as many times as the document on his laptop, knows where it’ll go next and can’t do a damn thing about it.

Because then, then. The hopeful trash goblin at the back of his mind raises its head and goes: but what if the letter got him to look at Alexander that way? And sure, maybe there would be no cavity-inducing sweetness to be had between them, but surely even Jefferson wouldn’t look at him, touch him the way he did at the elevator if he truly finds Alexander unattractive? So maybe, just maybe, he could have at least something with Jefferson? And, who knows, maybe that something could grow into something more… wholesome, over time?

The idea of _having_ will be the end of Alexander. Burr had at some point, in one of his extremely rare bouts of sincerity, said that Hamilton is indiscriminate in his hunger, and it’s not like Alex can really argue with that one.

The final tendril of this jumble of thoughts and associations is yet another planned heist to recover the letter that Jefferson held out of his reach and folded into his pocket on that faithful day (at least he would thus eliminate the potential blackmail-aspect of the situation), but as always he comes to the conclusion that the letter is probably tucked away in some ‘stuff to laugh at on a rainy day’-folder at Jefferson’s home. _And it’s not like it matters anyway,_ Alexander thinks bitterly. Based on their weekly executive board meetings the fucker has the whole thing memorized anyway.

 

++++

 

“Oh, darling.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Jefferson sinks his pointer- and middle fingers deeper into Alexander’s mouth, creeping dangerously close to his throat now. His free hand is resting against the back of Alexander’s neck, fingers lazily twirling around the few wisps of hair escaped from his ponytail. The chair creaks as he leans in closer and Alexander’s knees are starting to press uncomfortably against the hideous beige carpet of Jefferson’s office.

“Why I thought pet names would be just the thing to send your heart aflutter, dearest,” he drawls.

You thought wrong, is what Alexander would say if he could, but he can’t so he tries to suck at the fingers in his mouth resentfully instead. In a way he actually prefers it when Jefferson taunts; prefers it over the times when it doesn’t even need to be said, when it is evident in the sick delight on Jefferson’s face that he knows exactly how weak Alexander is. Knows exactly how far he would go for an approving smile, a caress, a kiss (like a proper one on the mouth, not teasing grazes of lips and teeth behind his ears). Not that they have ever gotten to the last one but Jefferson likes to at least uphold the illusion of it being on the table.

“Say, would you suck my dick if I promised to hold your hand afterwards?” The fingers do breach Alexander’s throat now but he doesn’t gag, wants despite of himself to show he can take it. “Actually scratch that, I think we both know that you’d be gagging for my dick regardless,” he pauses to laugh here, “so how about this; would you give me your vote in the next board meeting if I agreed to hold your hand and call you my pretty little thing afterwards?”

It’s not like Alexander can answer that with his mouth occupied, just glances up scornfully.

“Ah, the sweet sound of Alexander Hamilton shutting up, I could get used to this.” Jefferson finally pulls his fingers out, wipes them on the collar of Alexander’s shirt. Smiles down at Alexander in that cat-like manner that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Now won’t you be a dear and get me a coffee? Decaf, extra froth with three sugars.”

He most definitively won’t. It’s one thing to come in here to get something signed and get (yet again) coerced into this sick power play in which he barely counts as a real participant, and entirely another to walk out there to run a stupid errand like some servant (or worse; an intern) and having to crawl back just to look at that smug face all over again.

Alexander opens his mouth to tell him as much but then the hand still resting against the back of his neck grips his ponytail and his head gets drawn back and suddenly Jefferson is _right there_ , his soft lips merely a breath away from Alexander’s and his brain stops whatever it is that it was doing and his heart starts to pound a deafening rhythm into his ears. Those beautiful dark eyes are so close to Alexander’s that he can’t help but close his own and shiver under the hungry gaze.

 _Ah_ , some still functional part of his mind supplies, _there it is_. The feeling he keeps coming back for, over and over again. Jefferson rations it out with brutal precision, always giving him just enough to keep him famished for more.

“Be a dear,” Jefferson repeats his voice low and lips moving against the corner of Alexander’s mouth.

Alexander scrambles onto his feet and steals a glance downwards on his way out. Of fucking course he, out of the two of them, is the only one affected.

He tells himself that he would have to go to the breakroom anyway, to cool down under the good AC.

 

++++

 

Decaf, extra foam, three sugars.

Alexander stares at the rose gold expresso machine resentfully as it does its thing. If access to unlimited coffee shop-level expresso is the mark of a well off company, surely the constant utilization of it is the mark of a rotten personality developed by an overly comfortable lifestyle.

An arm is draped around his shoulders, which tense up and relax again in rapid succession.

“The office-hermit has emerged!” John exclaims with an easy smile splitting his face. “Whatcha up to?”

Alexander returns the smile and jerks his head towards the expresso machine.

“You’re a smart man John, I’m sure you can piece this one together if you try hard enough.”

“Uh huh,” John hums and nods, definitely completely aware of the fact that Alexander never has and never will voluntarily touch the fancy trinket, having always just grabbed a disposable cupful of black coffee that someone else brewed. The smile on John’s face changes from a genuine one into… something Alexander quickly averts his gaze from, pretends to be interested in the array of leaflets stuck to the fridge instead.

He has been getting those looks a lot lately, and not just from John. Alexander has given Washington a haphazard explanation of sorts, something about Jefferson getting under his skin because of the mounting stress and lack of sleep. It’s enough to keep his boss from pushing the issue but not enough to stop that gaze from burrowing into his skull whenever Alexander chokes up during a meeting or comes out of a certain office short of breath. And then there’s Madison with his unreadable but ever alert eyes. It’s not like Alexander was able to read the guy even when they were sort of kind of friends but his main theory is that the sickly man is a lot like Alexander in many regards - the main difference being that Madison knows better than to show his hand to Jefferson.

Otherwise known as the only damn person who isn’t giving Alexander slightly pitiful and helpless-looking glances; or any kinds of glances, really. Jefferson has barely looked Alexander’s way for the past couple of weeks or so, which brings him here.

“You know he’s not-“John starts but then the machine is finally done and Alexander grabs the cup, ducks from under his friend’s arm with rare dexterity and makes a beeline for the door.

“Hold that thought, I gotta take care of something before my break ends.” The lingering guilt is quickly replaced by a dull buzzing as he closes in on that certain office. He draws in a breath, doesn’t knock.

Jefferson makes no move to acknowledge his presence, his typing fingers keeping a steady pace as though he was expecting Alexander to cave and go fetch him his dumb coffee by his own accord like a needy puppy dog. Maybe he was. Alex chews the inside of his cheek in irritation and slams the cup on the table. It makes him feel like a petty teenager but Jefferson finishes typing a sentence and cracks his knuckles with a sigh. Small victories.

“Why, that was sweet of you darling,” he coos and grins at Alexander. Then he’s typing again, his gaze back on the screen.

Alexander shifts on his feet, unsure. He has swallowed his pride, or whatever’s left of it, what else does the curly haired devil want? Is he supposed to just drop on his knees and crawl under the desk and present his mouth for fucking? Is he-

“Did you want something?”

His tone is bored and those eyes are still solidly fixed on the screen and Alexander has never wanted to damage company property so badly. The chewed stumps of his nails dig into the palms of his hands.

“What I want,” he manages, “is for you to just…”

 _Tell me what you want? Look at me? Want_ me _?_ Is it even possible to end the sentence in a way that doesn’t paint him in a light exactly as pathetic as he’s feeling? Probably not.

Jefferson stops typing again with a sigh and two perfectly manicured nails come up to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

“Sweetheart.”

Anxiety is starting to coil at the pit of Alexander’s stomach. Jefferson pushes his chair back and looks at Alex like an exasperated parent looks at a needy child who wants to show them a drawing while they’re trying to work.

“As much as I’d like to play I have some work to do.” The word condescension must have been invented to describe the very being of Thomas Jefferson. “Besides,” he continues, “I’m a taken man now so it’s not like it would be right of me to keep, ah, humoring you.”

Oh.

Alexander is vaguely aware of a strangled noise that comes out of his mouth.

“Which reminds me!” Jefferson yanks the top drawer of his desk open and waves an envelope between his index and middle finger. “You can have this back.” He tosses it to his right and the envelope lands on the carpet. “Not really worth risking having it around, my beloved might get the wrong idea. You understand.”

The taste of iron floods Alexander’s mouth. He’s been chewing at the inside of his cheek again.

“Alexander?” Thomas waves a hand at the direction of his face. The situation feels a bit too familiar for comfort.

Alex gets his legs to obey and scrambles towards the letter on the floor.

“Be a dear and close the door on your way out.”

The sound of typing resumes.  Alexander makes it out of the office before the tears start to spill this time around.

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic in years and it’s Not Even Porn™. Who would have thought.
> 
> Needless to say that if someone actually behaves like Jefferson at your workplace and you feel safe in doing so, team up with HR and nail their ass to the wall.


End file.
